


this one's perfect

by Red



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Body Image, Clothing, F/F, Gender or Sex Swap, Inspired by Fanart, Remix, Shopping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 13:00:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4747379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red/pseuds/Red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erika's final art show is this weekend, which means Charlotte finding herself confronted by this dress.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this one's perfect

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cheezybananaz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheezybananaz/gifts).
  * Inspired by [rule 63 sketchies](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/142259) by cheezybananaz. 
  * In response to a prompt by [cheezybananaz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheezybananaz/pseuds/cheezybananaz) in the [xmen_remix_madness2015](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/xmen_remix_madness2015) collection. 



> Thanks Cheezy for all the great art! I only managed to get 2/3 of the sketches remixed, but hopefully you enjoy.

“Just humor me.” 

Privately Charlotte thinks that she’s humored Erika more than enough, just agreeing to this little expedition. _I’ve got plenty of clothes_ , she had said this morning, and Erika just made an expression which implied how very little she thought of said clothes before she went ahead and dragged her out, anyway. 

So the final show was this weekend, but big deal, Charlotte had thought. She still thinks a cardigan and her one skirt to be plenty fancy for a wine bar at an art school--that Erika’s classmates and _their_ partners won’t be wearing any better--but yet here Erika is, brandishing a minuscule cocktail dress. 

For a moment, all Charlotte can do is glare at it, disbelieving. 

“It won’t kill you,” Erika claims, nudging it forward by her hold on the hanger. _Easy for her to say_ , Charlotte thinks, and Erika snorts. “You’ve suffered worse. Come on, let’s just see it.” 

“We can see it perfectly well where it is,” Charlotte says, but all the same she grabs it out of the air. It’s not in poor shape, she notes. Thrift stores are still a novel concept, even if it’s been a few years now that she was formally cut off from the family fortune. She still had a small fund, and how often does one really need to shop for clothes? Once or twice a year is probably fine, and you can order most anything you need online, can’t you? 

She picks at the front of the dress, incredulous at how scandalously low the neckline is, and then frowns up at Erika who, of course, hasn’t made a move to pull back the curtain of the dressing room and _leave_. 

“Do you mind?” 

Erika smirks, the way she does when it’s more a baring of teeth than an actual smile, and reaches one hand back for the curtain. 

“If you insist.” 

“Yes I insist. Go, get out of here,” Charlotte says, shooing her, even as Erika presses the thought _but it’s nothing I haven’t seen_ at her on the way out. Once she’s finally alone, Charlotte turns back to the mirror. 

This thing--Charlotte can’t even tell if it’s supposed to be the right size. She wonders if Erika can, how she ever _would_. Erika probably just grabbed the most scandalous thing she could find on blue-tag special. Women’s clothes aren’t even standard, Charlotte grouses to herself, pulling off her sweater. No one understands women’s sizes. She unbuttons her shirt, unzips and pulls off her skirt last. 

She straightens the strap of her bra and sighs, trying not to stare at herself too directly in the mirror. Why is the lighting in these places so uniformly unflattering? Upscale or Goodwill, it seems no dressing room is kind. She wouldn’t precisely say she dislikes her body, per se. She’s certainly spent enough time and money on it, at least for someone who--to quote Erika--dresses like she’s already got tenure. The curves of her hips, her chest--Charlotte looks good enough, she thinks, in her sweaters. There’s no need for something like this scrap of cloth Erika scrounged up. 

Shaking her head, Charlotte pulls it from the hanger. 

No _need_ for it, clearly, but who knows? Perhaps Erika’s right. Charlotte’s never put much effort into clothes, like Erika does from time to time. Maybe there _is_ something to be said for it, though Charlotte’s fairly sure Erika only ever dresses up as armor or disguise. 

Charlotte steps into the dress and starts to pull it up over her hips, gets her arms through the straps, and is immediately certain it’s a few sizes small. 

How can it not be? She adjusts the hem down, the fabric straining. Clearly, it’s too tight in the hips, her breasts feel smashed in even without her zipping it. She can still sense Erika leaning against the wall across from her (and read her impatience), and so she sends, _It’sthe wrong size_.

Right away, Erika takes the two steps to be at the the dressing room curtain again. Charlotte crosses her arms over her breasts instinctively, though Erika’s not gone to open the curtain. 

“Are you sure?” Erika asks. “It’s meant to be form-fitting.” 

“I’m sure.” _Unless it’s meant to be suffocating_. 

For a beat, Erika doesn’t reply. Charlotte is about to pull the dress off. 

“You haven’t even zipped it up,” Erika accuses. “You can’t tell if it fits or not.” 

“I can bloody well know I’ll rip it if I try.” 

Erika’s quiet again a moment, and Charlotte has the shivery feeling of Erika’s powers skimming-- _noticeably_ this time--down the parted line of the zipper. 

_May I see?_ Erika projects at her. 

Charlotte almost baulks at the thought. This dress, whatever Erika may have been thinking, certainly doesn’t _feel_ flattering. 

“Please,” Erika murmurs, her voice soft through the cheap cloth of the curtain, and damn her. 

“Fine,” Charlotte mutters, keeping her arms tightly crossed. “I’ll need your help with the zipper, anyway,” she continues, and Erika’s behind her before she’s done speaking.

And the look on her face… 

Charlotte smiles, suddenly quite a bit more self-assured. 

“Told you I needed a larger size.” 

Not even bothering to pretend she isn’t staring, Erika moves to take hold of the bottom of the zipper. 

“We’ll see,” she whispers.

Tooth by tooth, Erika eases it up with her hands rather than her powers, holding parted fabric close. Charlotte holds her breath, focusing her gaze on her sweater, crumpled on the tiny chair crammed in here alongside her and Erika. 

The dress is too tight around her waist, compressing around her hips and arse, nearly ripping over her ribs. But the last little bit, the last few inches--

There is absolutely no way Erika hasn’t altered the zipper _somehow_ to accommodate. Charlotte winces and tries not to breathe. 

“Jesus fuck,” she wheezes, wishing she could go back in time a few cup sizes, “Erika. This dress--”

“Is perfect,” Erika interrupts. Her hands are still on Charlotte’s back, bracing and warm. “This one’s perfect.” 

Charlotte hasn’t the oxygen to reply.

“But,” Erika finally says, skimming her hands around to the front of the dress, down towards Charlotte’s waist. Charlotte’s pulse thrums--she still keeps looking down, evaluating her waist, her hips, the way the fabric strains--Erika is so close, her breath hot on Charlotte’s bared neck. “I want you to wear whatever makes you comfortable.” 

Dragging in a breath, trying not to pop the seams of the dress, Charlotte laughs. “That certainly wouldn’t be this,” she admits, reaching one hand up brush against Erika’s hair. If anything, it pulls the fabric tighter against her breasts. 

“Mmm.” Erika kisses her on the neck, quickly, before continuing to eye her in the mirror. 

“You’re impossible,” she grumbles. The denim of Erika’s jeans feels rough against the back of her naked legs, the curve of her smile dangerous and unbearably sexy in the mirror’s reflection. 

Erika’s body is so striking against her own, so different--long-boned and sharp, her turtleneck tight against her flat chest and her broad shoulders and the narrowness of her waist. Charlotte is flustered, air-starved and hot in the confines of the narrow stall of a dressing room, blood rushing to her groin as Erika’s hands wander over the fabric straining around Charlotte’s hips. 

Gasping, Charlotte tugs at Erika’s hair. “Please,” she warns, meaning _you’re ridiculous_ and _not here_ , hoping Erika gets the message. 

Charlotte’s not sending anything with her powers. She watches herself, the way her skin is flushed all down her neck and breasts, the way Erika is tracking the movement of her chest as she breathes. She watches Erika’s hands as they slowly, slowly drift down.

When she feels Erika’s long fingers brush skin, Charlotte shivers. Maybe here, she thinks deliriously, would be just fine. Who hasn’t made out in unpurchased clothes? Well, okay, so Charles hasn’t _yet_ , but maybe it’s one of those rites of passage. She’s probably just been missing out. 

She leans heavily back into Erika, waiting. 

Erika traces over the hem of the dress, over the pale skin of Charlotte’s upper thigh. 

“Please, hmm?” she asks. Her voice is smoky, low and heavy with promise. Charlotte doesn’t say a word, licking her lips unconsciously, a quick motion that makes Erika look--if anything--even more hungry. 

But all she does is give Charlotte one last, rushed kiss, and step back. Fumbling to brace herself against the wall, Charlotte shoots a glare at Erika, but can’t find the air to complain. 

“Perhaps,” Erika allows, raising one of her hands slightly and reaching out a little of her power, “it _is_ a bit tight.” Charlotte has the distinct impression that Erika would be keen on talking her into wearing this were it a _private_ event, but that an art school wine bar would be a bit much. The zipper starts to ease open, and Charlotte huffs out a laugh now that she’s got the space to do so. 

“I did bring you something else in, too,” Erika continues, using her powers to bring down the zipper all the way. 

Charlotte sucks in a few deep breaths while she can, sure Erika’s found something worse.

“Oh, did you?”

“Yes,” Erika says, and holds up something with more fabric to it. 

A lot more fabric to it. And it’s some sort of knit, too, more t-shirt than anything else; it’d have more give even if it weren’t already huge.

“Erika,” Charlotte says, voice flat. “That’s big enough for the both of us.” 

Erika grins, pushing it toward Charlotte and going for the hem of her own shirt. 

“Exactly,” she replies.

They’re going to leave this place empty-handed, Charlotte’s sure. And while she should be upset--at the waste of her afternoon, at the miserable experience of shopping for clothes, and the discomfort of this bloody _straightjacket_ she’s trying to ease her way out of--for now, watching Erika muss up her hair as she drags off her turtleneck, all she can do is laugh.


End file.
